


Wilson River Road

by Aloysia_Virgata



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post-Episode: s09e20 The Truth (Part 2)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 07:38:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7675792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloysia_Virgata/pseuds/Aloysia_Virgata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No, the journey doesn’t end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it.”</p><p>                           —J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wilson River Road

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by William Stafford’s  _Traveling Through the Dark._

The rain has been falling for hours, outpacing the wiper blades with a relentless determination. The tapping sound of it is no longer charming, no longer reminiscent of boozy summer evenings or romantic weekends under the covers. It must simply be endured.

The car has become a tiny, irritating prison scented with gas station food and frustration. Scully is scanning the map listlessly, her eyes heavy. Her hair is a monochromatic brown, like a child might color with a marker. Next to her is a weathered plastic cup from 7-11. It contains several inches of warm Diet Coke, the only fuel for which she has shown much passion. She thumbs a roll of Mentos.

Mulder drives steadily along in the right lane, the rain dampening his thirst for speed and besides, they are in no real hurry. Their destinations are all decrepit motels with sagging mattresses, seedy diners with sticky-lipped waitresses who reek of cigarettes and the fried fish special.

The car plows through a tremendous puddle, hydroplaning. Scully grabs his leg and his knuckles tighten on the wheel.

They haven’t had sex in a while and that would be okay if it weren’t so clearly symptomatic. Scully takes long walks through the grimy little towns they go to. She is friendly to the strangers there, patting their mongrel dogs and waving at babies in shopping carts and cheap umbrella strollers. At night she is warm next to him, curled against his chest, wearing his t-shirt and her cross. But it’s all the contact she will initiate and the few times he has made a move, she kissed him with her dry lips and shook her head. He masturbates in the cramped showers, wondering if she does the same.

“Next left,” she says abruptly and he signals, gliding over to the far lane.

There is nothing oncoming, just a solid mist that vanishes into the curving treeline.  Mulder turns slowly, wary of the balding tires. They head onto Wilson River Road, a narrow two-lane that parallels the bluffs above the water below. The guardrail is low and, in some places, absent. Mulder imagines the rapids must be wild now, with all the runoff pouring in. He squints hard into the falling dark ahead, fumbling for the high beams.

Scully’s yelp alerts him to the deer just as they plow into it. The impact is shockingly strong, and the animal disappears as Mulder brakes. He swings the car to the right, pulling off on the shoulder. Next to him, Scully is gasping. Diet Coke soaks the map on her knees.

“You okay?” he asks.

She nods, wide-eyed. “Where did it go?”

He looks ahead, but there is no deer. “Must’ve run off.”

She furrows her brow. “Maybe. But I think we should check the road. If it’s just laying there, someone might hit it. The road’s dangerous enough in this rain.”

He doesn’t want to get out and check, he doesn’t want to leave the dry – if stale – interior of the car for the possibility of a mangled deer carcass. Doesn’t she get tired of saving everyone?

“Okay,” he says.

They slither into their parkas, drawing the hoods close around their faces. They take their flashlights from the glove compartment. Mulder grabs the shotgun from under the blanket in the backseat.

Scully nods, looking sad.

The rain hits them in fat drops, but it’s June and they are far enough south that the night is reasonably warm. Mulder cants his face to the full moon that has peeped between the clouds. The rain looks like quicksilver coming down.

Scully is up ahead, scanning the ground with her flashlight. There are dark splashes of blood in the wide beam.

Mulder joins her, follows the trail into the undergrowth.

Lying on the raspberry canes and Virginia creeper is a large doe, her eyes already glazing. The pupils are fixed, staring into the endless night ahead. Her velvety sides heave with ragged breaths, a foam of blood at her nostrils. At least one leg and several ribs are broken.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Scully hisses.

Mulder shoots the doe in the head. Her sides are instantly still.

Scully crouches next to the animal, running a hand over her warm flank. “Oh, shit. Oh, Mulder, she’s pregnant.”

Mulder leans the rifle against a tree, muzzle to the earth. He crouches down as well, puts his hand on the heavy, wet belly of the deer. Beneath his hand, movement. Life.

“What will happen to the fawn?” he asks.

She sighs. “It’ll die from oxygen deprivation.”

It will go to sleep, then. It will drowse in the warm, safe dark of its mother’s body. It will never know anything but peace. He strokes the spot where the fawn is again, by way of apology.

“We have to go,” Mulder says. “I’m sorry I didn’t see the deer.” He picks up the gun.

Scully blinks for a long second, then rises in one fluid motion. The rain clings to her eyelashes. “Let’s go,” she says.

The get back into the car, fogging the glass with their drenched clothes. Mulder offers a silent prayer for the deer and her child, to whatever god watches over the wild things. He turns on the vent to clear the windshield.

There are no other headlights in sight when he eases the car back onto the road, and even Scully’s bright eyes have gone dark. She slurps noisily at her empty drink.

Mulder smells cordite in his nose, smells blood, which cannot be possible because of the rain. There is no crime, he tells himself. These aren’t murders. This is the kindest thing for the fawn, who, if born, would face a world of privation. Starvation, hunters. Cars

Scully, next to him, gazes down the road. Inscrutable things behind her eyes.

_It was an accident, there was such rain and the road was so dark…_

_Blood foaming out of the doe’s nose as she pumped air into her baby_.

“ _DAMMIT,”_ he snaps, and slams on the brakes.

Scully jerks against her seatbelt, stares at him.

The tires squeal when he makes the u-turn on Wilson River Road, screeching back across the wrong lane to where the deer lies. He parks the car, turns off the engine.

“Mulder,” Scully says, unnerved.

“There’s a box-cutter in the glove compartment. Just tell me what to do, okay?”

Her eyes flash in understanding and she swallows hard. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

She finds the tool easily enough, then stumbles back into the elements. Mulder follows her, flashlight in hand.

The doe is clearly dead now, with the faintly artificial look that dead things have. Scully gets to her knees beside the animal and jabs the knife into its belly. She makes a long incision with her right hand, disemboweling with her left. The cut is rough, not the smooth line he is accustomed to, and he is awed by the fierce strength in her.

Mulder smells blood and meat and feces, the smells of death. Of life. He gags, but joins Scully on the soaked earth. She is nearly to her shoulders in red, intestines unspooled on her knees.

She draws out the womb, slits it open to reveal a tiny spotted fawn. It is dark and wet and still.

Scully bites her lip, then cuts the umbilical cord. The doe is a husk now, the rain washing her blood into the earth.

The fawn doesn’t move.

“Breathe,” Mulder whispers, leaning over it. “ _Breathe.”_

Scully shoves the intestines onto the ground, pulling the tiny creature onto her lap. She gives it a gentle shake.

Mulder cups his hand around its tiny head and the fawn blinks, kicks feebly at Scully’s arm.

They look at each other, grinning.

“Congratulations,” Scully says. She might be crying, but he isn’t sure.

So might he.

“She’s breathing,” Scully says. “We’ll take her to a fire station or something.”

“Yeah,” he says. The fawn has curling lashes and a nose like polished shoes. Mulder tugs off his parka to wrap around her. His shirt is quickly soaked.

He helps Scully and her fragile parcel up and to the car. Back in the driver’s seat, he unbuttons his shirt. It clings to him like seaweed, but he wrestles it into the back seat with the gun. He tosses Scully the Aztec blanket and she arranges it around the small form in her arms. Mulder sees a pink tongue flick out over that shiny black nose. He smiles.

“You softie,” Scully murmurs as they pull back onto the road. She strokes the slender neck on her lap. “Her pulse is good.”

He reaches out for her hand and she takes it, clutches it to her dripping face. She burns his palm with a kiss beneath the falling sky.


End file.
